


The Devil's in the Details

by Lilly_Lumos



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26987386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilly_Lumos/pseuds/Lilly_Lumos
Summary: Hermione's return to Hogwarts unearths some unfinished feelings.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Kudos: 28





	1. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's return to Hogwarts unearths some unfinished feelings.

It was bittersweet, sitting on the cold steel bench next to Ginny on Platform 9 3/4 at 10:45 AM as Mrs Weasley fussed over the zips and clasps on their trunks for maybe the tenth time that morning. Ginny was popping Every Flavour Beans into her mouth and making faces; Hermione was counting how many faces she recognised among the crowds. For every familiar face or old friend there were ten people she did not recognise. The new First Years, due to Hogwarts remaining closed for a whole year following the war to allow time for reparations, were a muddle of 11, 12 and 13 year olds, and the difference in that relatively short space of time was pronounced: some were small, childlike and rose-cheeked, still embalming that daisy freshness of sunny days spent rolling down hills and playing pretend; others were more elongated in both the limbs and nose, their faces somewhat chiseled from their former roundness and scowling with it.

The noise, the movement, the steam billowing in festoons from the front of the bright scarlet train… it should have been a welcome return to a home from home. But being here without Harry, without Ron, without any great number of classmates and adopted family who had lost their lives in their bid to save hers, it was difficult to muster that same excitement that had greeted her every September 1st since her 11th birthday.

From where she sat, Hermione had a good view of the entrance to the platform and she was enjoying the distraction of pondering who would pop through the barrier next. Among new and unknown students, she counted Luna with Xenophillius, Neville with his grandmother, Ernie MacMillan with both parents and a younger boy who could only be his brother, Romilda Vane with a woman too young to be her mum but who mirrored the cascading brown curls that Hermione so envied (her sister, perhaps?).

The barrier shimmered with its glamour once more and the lean figure of Draco Malfoy materialised, dressed head to foot in varying shades of black. Hermione let out a small ‘oh’ of surprise; she had seen none of his Slytherin friends and would not have expected him to return either. Lucius Malfoy may have been in Azkaban for his Death Eater crimes but his wife, Narcissa, had been spared incarceration - surely she wasn’t so concerned that he finish his studies? She certainly hadn’t accompanied him to the platform to wave him off, Hermione noted; he was alone. Almost as if he’d heard her exclamation, Malfoy glanced in her direction and, before Hermione could avert her gaze, their eyes met briefly. Something in her stomach had swooped sourly, as if the ground beneath her had unexpectedly dropped by a foot. Ever hopeful, her hand had fluttered to her side in greeting, but Malfoy’s mouth formed a straight line and he lowered his head, tightening his grip on the handle of his trunk as he ducked onto one of the carriages of the train.

“I see he hasn’t changed,” Ginny piped up, nodding in his direction as she popped a lime green bean into her mouth.

“Mmm,” Hermione made a non-committal noise. “We can’t know that for sure.”

“Ever the optimist,” Ginny chuckled, before her smile twisted to a grimace and she grabbed the box of beans, peering at the diagram on the back. “Ugh… think this one’s grass or something…”

Some minutes later, the two girls bid a tearful Mrs Weasley goodbye with promises to be good, and climbed aboard the train. Hermione followed Ginny along the centre of the carriages as she murmured to herself about Luna and Neville saving them a compartment. As they moved along, they passed Malfoy, leaning against the wall of the foyer where two carriages joined, with his trunk at his feet, his nose in a dusty leather-bound pocket book and a shiny new wand almost hidden from view protruding from the back pocket of his trousers. He gave them little regard, his steely eyes quickly assessing who had appeared in his vicinity before returning to the pages.

Hermione decided to forgo another attempt at politeness and followed Ginny’s lead down the train where, a few compartments later, they found Neville and Luna sat at the window seats of an otherwise empty compartment.

Neville, now towering at least a foot taller than her, beamed at Hermione and set a small potted sunflower on the floor so he could stand and wrap her in a hug. Luna shot her her a smile that was as dreamy and whimsical as Hermione remembered it; her heart gave a happy little tug as she recognised the tiny dirigible plum earrings peeking out from between wefts of long blonde hair. The part of her that now thought of Hogwarts as unfamiliar territory without Ron and Harry retreated a little, her confidence bolstered by having two more friends at her side.

The train pulled away from the platform with a loud, low wheeze, sounding more and more agile as it gained momentum, and the foursome settled in for the long journey. The same witch with her trolley laden with treats appeared at their compartment door within the hour, offering pastries, sweets, chocolate and clanking glass bottles of cool pumpkin juice, frosted with condensation in the hazy September heat. Students rushed up and down the centre of the train, chatting and laughing and making good use of the grey area before they reached the castle when they could use magic freely without fear of reprimand.

Nothing had changed on the surface and yet the loss that had been sustained, from before the war had really begun to the time that had followed its end, seemed to lurk in the corners of the carriage like something dark and vacuous, a black hole or a tumultuous wave ready to pull them under if their thoughts or conversation should stray to that particular topic. Instead, the four friends chatted about how they had spent their time over the past year waiting for Hogwarts to reopen.

Neville had gone back to live with his grandmother and had got a part-time job in a local garden centre, tending to the plants.

“That explains the sunflower,” Ginny said, nodding towards the bright yellow plant that was now perched on Neville’s lap.

“Learning about Muggle plants was really interesting but it just wasn’t the same without them trying to kill me,” he lamented without a trace of irony.

Luna was living with Xenophillius in their absurd, rook-shaped house, a stone’s throw from the Burrow in Ottery St. Catchpole; with the Quibbler now being one of the best-selling magazines in the wizarding publication industry, all hands were needed on deck and Luna had even had a few pieces of her own published in some editions.

Ginny was, of course, back at the Burrow with the Weasleys, as well as Harry and his godson Teddy Lupin who had become longterm lodgers. Their official place of residence was Grimmauld Place but, as Molly had told Harry sternly at the first Sunday dinner a few months after the Battle of Hogwarts, it was hardly a suitable place to raise a young impressionable lad, not at the very least before it had been redecorated. Ron and Harry were working with Mr Weasley at the Ministry (Harry part-time so as to have time to spend with Teddy); the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts department had been given much more space as well as respect under the new rule of Minister Shacklebolt and Mr Weasley had suddenly found himself in need of both a deputy and an assistant, roles which Ron and Harry now filled respectively. Ron was also helping George at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes during the busier Saturday shifts when Angelina - who was now George’s girlfriend - had Quidditch practice.

Ginny herself had been dividing her time between looking after Teddy when Harry was at work and lending a hand in the post office in Ottery St Catchpole.

“It’s dull as dishwater,” Ginny smirked, “but the Muggle kids love my magic tricks.” The group watched as she took a fat gleaming Galleon between her thumb and forefinger and Vanished it behind her ear. Then her nose began to twitch and she sneezed theatrically into her hands, where the Galleon suddenly reappeared to the group’s hilarity.

“What about you, Hermione?” Neville asked when their laughter had died down.

“Oh, you know,” she replied. “A little of this, a little of that. I spent some time at the Burrow.” It wasn’t strictly a lie. Hermione had indeed spent a number of months at the Burrow following the end of the war. That she had soon returned to her parents’ empty house in Wiltshire was neither here nor there, nor were her reasons for doing so. Ginny, knowing her exaggeration, gave her a look but didn’t betray her. The fact that Hermione had refused Ginny’s pleas for her to stay that rainy night in August, and had ignored her subsequent owls until Christmas, was still something of a sore spot for the pair’s friendship.

“That’s nice,” Luna mused, unwrapping a Chocolate Frog. “How is the search for your parents going?”

Hermione blanched, more surprised at Luna’s knowledge of the fact than taken aback by the question itself; Luna had never exactly been one to beat around the bush.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she continued, “but Ginny confided in me some when you had your falling-out with Ron last summer.” Hermione looked to Ginny, who at least had the good grace to look slightly flushed, but shrugged nonetheless.

“I was worried about you,” she explained.

“Sorry, have I said something wrong?” Luna asked, her eyes if possible wider than usual. Neville had suddenly become inexplicably interested in his sunflower. Hermione took a deep refreshing breath, closing her eyes and shaking the fog out of her head.

“No, it’s alright, Luna” she said, “and you, Ginny. Really.” She reached across to pat her friend’s hand; Ginny, still a little pink, smiled gratefully, her eyes shining. “The search, it’s… well, it’s going. That’s about as much as there is to say. Australia is a big place.”

Luna nodded serenely.

“I’m sure they’ll be okay. If anything had happened to them while You Know Who was powerful, we would have heard about it.”

Hermione wasn’t so sure. She had just been Harry’s sidekick, and her parents had been reduced to two completely unconnected Muggles thanks to her Memory Charm that had erased all memories of Hermione, Hogwarts and the wizarding world. The two easily could’ve been slaughtered with no more importance than any of the other Muggles killed during You-Know-Who’s reign and Hermione’s hope of ever finding them, alive or dead, was slowly waning.

“Thank you, Luna,” she said, attempting a wry grin which felt more like a grimace on her strained face. Luna smiled, a hint of either sympathy or pity - Hermione couldn’t tell - in her expression, before reaching for her rucksack and withdrawing the Summer Solstice edition of The Quibbler from its depths to show Neville the double page spread she had written about new research into the breeding habits and habitation preferences of the newly discovered Frosted Nargle. Hermione glanced up at Ginny, who had returned to her box of Every Flavour Beans. Her mouth full, she rolled her eyes and jolted her head towards Luna affectionately before wordlessly offering the box to Hermione. She plucked a pastel pink bean from the pile and popped it into her mouth. Moments later, her face twisted and she spluttered at the taste of the sweet.

“Well?” Ginny smirked. Hermione cleared her throat several times before answering.

“I don’t know what that was but it wasn’t grapefruit.”

The view from the window grew progressively more green as the inner city’s urbanity became more sparse. It became a wild patchwork of yellowing meadows embroiled with dark hedgerows, peppered here and there with stitches of sheep and swathes of purple thistles the further north the train drew. Hermione had settled at the window and opened her book, a thickset leather-bound edition with heavily thumbed pages ripe with the musty smell of age. Hours into the journey, the sun began to nestle below the horizon, dragging the colourful corners of the sky with it. The oil lamps in the compartments sprang to life with a fizz and a crackle and Hermione, jostled about by the movement of the train through the more rural terrain, had to narrow her eyes to focus on the page in the dim light. Admitting defeat, she closed the book with a sigh and looked around their carriage.

Neville, sitting opposite, was slumped against the window with his arms bundled around his chest, snoring softly in the throes of an afternoon nap. Ginny and Luna had bewitched the last of the Every Flavour Beans and were giggling as they hopped happily between their hands. Hermione checked her watch and, surmising that the train would be pulling into Hogsmeade in around half an hour, returned her book to her rucksack before standing up, her knees clicking from inactivity.

“Just nipping to the loo,” she murmured, creeping between the girls’ knees, narrowly missing a particularly exuberant bean that was attempting to clear the gap between their shoulders.

Hermione slid the compartment door behind her with a soft whoosh and a clatter and made her way along the train. The atmosphere that had been so boisterous earlier was now hushed and peaceful; every other compartment housed similarly lethargic students but occasionally a gleeful whoop or peal of laughter would permeate the otherwise drowsy silence.

She wobbled into the next carriage as the train jolted over a bump in the track. Her eyes fell on a pair of lean legs, clothed in expensively-tailored black trousers, one crossed over the other at the ankles. Nose still in his book, Draco Malfoy was sat on his trunk on the floor, leaning against the side of the carriage. If he noticed her presence in his carriage, he didn’t acknowledge it as he held his book in one hand and swept the fingers of the other across it, using wordless magic to turn the pages.

After her initial flinch of surprise at seeing him, Hermione paid him about as much notice as he did her, but it was like his silhouette, his shadow, followed her to the next carriage, swimming around her head like the typical trope in so many comic books. Why was he sat on the floor? Why was he here at all? Why was he ignoring her? Malfoy never missed the chance to make her feel small. This silence, this lack of notice, bothered her far more than his cruel words ever had.

On her return journey, she had intended to walk straight through his carriage but it felt like walking through treacle. The quietness that emanated from him had her scrutinising her own every move, every rustle of fabric, every squeak of her shoe. She reached the door nearest to where he was sat, still on the floor, rocking with the train’s movement, and she stopped with her hand on the door frame, her eyes on him. His hair was longer, swept back and behind his ears, but still glossy, still almost white. His fingernails were short and bitten but not ragged or untidy. He had removed his scarf and, beneath the collar of his jacket, she could see a small portion of the smooth expanse of skin, the top of his chest, unblemished but for the jagged top of a faint, silvery scar. Above that, his neck; and above that, his mouth, his nose, a pair of steel grey eyes that she now realised were trained not on his book but on her.

She swallowed thickly, feeling blood blossom pink in her cheeks as he crooked a questioning eyebrow at her. She waited for him to speak and, when he did not, she left, quickly returning to her own compartment in case he should follow her.

As she and her friends changed into her robes, those steel eyes lingered in her head. She had never seen such a look in them, a look that had made her feel like prey. A ghost of a memory swirled around her, a long-fingered hand on her jaw, a soft mouth hard on hers. She wondered if he remembered too.

She had never known grey was such a warm colour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, fellow fanfic/Dramione lovers! Long-time reader and short-time writer. I'm new to AO3 and this is the first fanfiction I've decided to post anywhere online. I've disabled comments for the time being as I'm not necessarily writing for CC but just because I enjoy it. I may enable them in the future once I've got into the swing of things a bit more. I hope you like it!
> 
> lilly_lumos


	2. Heads and Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you to those of you who have read, bookmarked and kudos-ed my story so far! I'm out of practice with fiction writing in general so you might have to bear with slow updates while I get used to stretching my writing muscles again, especially as I'm posting as I complete each chapter. I have a vague idea about what will happen in this story but I'm mostly winging it so thanks for any of you who stick with me.
> 
> Here is Chapter 2, enjoy!

Hermione didn’t know what unnerved her more: the hazy images of what she had expected the castle to look like post-repair, or the fact that it looked almost exactly the same as how she remembered. As she stepped onto the train platform into the mild September air, she saw the silhouette of the castle jagged against a deep indigo backdrop studded through with stars. Once a beacon of excitement and eventually comfort, it now filled her with a sense of dread. She wondered not for the first time whether the decision to return to finish her studies had been the sensible one.

“Alright, H?” Ginny asked, shooting her a look. She could see a wobble in her eyes, too, as most of the other students ricocheted towards the platform gate. She replied with a small grimace.

Over her shoulder, she saw Malfoy stepping off the train, trunk in hand as he put his book away in his coat pocket. He put his trunk on the platform and slung his broom over his back on its straps, before crouching to fiddle with the clasps. In the moonlight, his hair gleamed white gold.

“Keep up, Hermione, we need to get a coach!” Ginny called from the gate, snapping her out of her reverie, and she followed hastily.

When she caught up to the others, they were standing warily behind the last free coach that had pulled up beside them. Hermione wondered what had them so on edge until she saw them for herself: the Thestrals, black winged horses huffing white puffs of air through their skeletal snouts. She remembered the first time she had seen one, partway through the Battle as she and Ron had run hand in hand through the courtyard. She couldn’t recall seeing somebody die - her only explanation was that perhaps she had witnessed death all around her simply in passing - but the sight of the huge, skeletal horse rearing on its back legs, spreading wide its horrifyingly large wingspan, had filled her with a leaden sadness. A resounding, irrefutable ‘oh’; a realisation that, amidst all the fantastical, unbelievable events that had led up to the Battle, it was actually happening. People - friends, classmates, people whose faces she’d known for the past seven years - were dying. Would die. And she might have seen them die in passing, no time to grieve before moving onto blocking the next curse, casting the next hex, hopefully saving the next life.

The Thestrals were not new to Luna, of course, and she gave the horse a familial pet on its snout before climbing into the carriage. Ginny next, shaking the thoughts from her head before boarding, followed by Neville, who looked a little clammy, and finally Hermione. She sat next to Neville and gave his hand a squeeze. He squeezed back gratefully as the carriage began to pull away.

Hermione took a deep breath, rolled her shoulders to force relaxation on her body. She felt so tense she could almost feel every movement of the roots of her hair bristling on her scalp. She ran a hand through it, scraping it off her face and unclenching her jaw, before looking to the rear of the carriage. In the distance, she could see a lone figure, tall and slender with a gleam of blonde hair.

“Oh,” she said quietly. Ginny crooked an eyebrow. “Can we stop? Can we - stop! Stop?”

The carriage rolled to a stop, the Thestral pawing at the ground with its hooves.

“What’s wrong?” Ginny asked.

“Are you alright, Hermione?” said Neville. “Yes, I’m fine, it’s just… it’s…”

“She wants to wait for Draco Malfoy,” Luna finished for her in her airy tone.

“Malfoy?” Ginny and Neville asked in unison. Ginny followed her gaze and registered the shock of blonde hair that was now halfway to where their carriage had pulled to stop.

“Hermione, you can’t be serious,” Ginny said gravely.

“Well, I just thought-” she began but Luna again came to her rescue.

“He’ll be late to the feast if he walks all that way,” she said.

“Who cares!” Ginny hissed. “Mr Bloody Death Eater Prince can slum it for a change!”

“Gin, that’s not fair-”

Ginny rounded on Hermione with fury blazed across her face. “Fair?” she scoffed. “Fair! My brother’s dead because of him” - she pointed a quivering finger at Malfoy who was now passing the rear of the carriage on the footpath beside the track - “and his mates. How’s that for fair?”

For a fraction of a second, Hermione could have sworn that he had faltered. Just for the briefest of moments, a nerve jumped in his temple, his shoulders stiffened. So brief that maybe she had imagined it. He continued striding forwards as though deaf to their conversation. Hermione’s eyes followed his figure, feeling Ginny’s glare burning into the back of her head. When she turned to meet her eyes, they were wet with tears that had not escaped.

“You’re right,” Hermione said quietly. “You’re right, Ginny, I’m sorry.”

Ginny said nothing but set her jaw resolutely forwards as though grinding her teeth. Luna leaned forward and patted the Thestral’s bony flank, and they climbed the journey up the hill in silence.

*

Malfoy was not late to the feast because he didn’t show up at all. Hermione tried to focus on McGonagall’s speech and on the Sorting but her eyes kept sliding towards the doors to the Entrance Hall of their own accord. When the Sorting concluded and the food began to materialise on the platters in front of them, she had little appetite and, in an odd sort of way, she saw she wasn’t the only one. The other Eighth Years, and some Seventh Years whom she recognised, picked at their food somewhat morosely, mirroring her own anxious queasiness. Ginny, who hadn’t said another word to her but had at least sat next to her at the table, sullenly stabbed at a chicken breast and poor Dennis Creevey had only managed two roast potatoes before quietly setting his cutlery on his plate.

The main course was replaced with desserts. Hermione would have normally helped herself to a generous portion of apple crumble and custard but not today. When the plates magically cleared of the remaining food and McGonagall stepped forward to address the students, Hermione’s eyes darted first to the doors and then to the Slytherin table, searching for that head of white blond hair. He still hadn’t arrived and, for some reason even Hermione couldn’t put her finger on, that didn’t sit right with her. Worse, nobody else seemed to care or even notice, not even the professors.

The other students around her all started getting up and Hermione realised they had been dismissed. Hermione climbed awkwardly from the benches, wrapping her cloak around herself as she followed Ginny and Luna’s voices musing about living arrangements this year. McGonagall had mentioned in her speech something about ‘private quarters’ for the Eighth Years but - she gave herself a mental slap on the wrists - she hadn’t been listening. What was the point in returning to Hogwarts, making herself go through all of this to finish her studies, if she wasn’t going to pay attention? She endeavoured to focus more acutely from now on.

The crowd of students pulsed steadily through the doors to the Entrance Hall and thinned as each House went their separate ways. Luna bid them all goodnight and followed the rest of the Ravenclaws in the direction of their common room. Hermione was ready to ascend the staircase with Ginny and Neville when she felt a thin hand on her shoulder and whipped around, startled at the unexpected contact.

It was McGonagall, looking at her with a tight-lipped but patient smile. She folded her hands in front of her, clasping the tattered folds of the Sorting Hat, the billowing sleeves of her emerald green robes falling past her wrists.

"Miss Granger," she said. "I wonder if you would accompany me to the Headma - my office."

"Oh," Hermione said, surprised. "Why, Professor?"

McGonagall’s eyebrows raised in amusement. "I suppose you’ll find out when we get there, won’t you?" she asked. Hermione didn’t miss that familiar mischievous glint in her expression.

She looked over at Ginny and Neville, who had paused a couple of steps up next to the bannister upon realising she’d been collared.

"I’ll…see you later, I suppose," she said.

"I’ll wait for you in the common room," Ginny said. Hermione turned back to McGonagall, who smiled that familiar twinkling smile again.

"Shall we?"

Hermione nodded and met her pace, robes billowing behind them as they crossed the Entrance Hall against the flow of students to climb the staircase on the other side. They walked quietly together for the first few minutes. Hermione wondered what on earth could have happened already, within hours of the school year starting, to warrant this disruption. This year wasn’t supposed to be like this, she thought. It was always Harry who attracted trouble, not her.

The silence between them was perturbing. She glanced furtively up at McGonagall who, awkwardly, caught her eye and gave her a taut smile before looking away. If she didn’t know better, Hermione would have guessed McGonagall felt as off-kilter as she did.

"Congratulations on being appointed Head, Professor," Hermione ventured. McGonagall glanced down at her again and smiled, more warmly this time.

"Thank you, Miss Granger. I can’t say the circumstances are how I’d imagined my career would progress, but it’s certainly an honour nonetheless."

"My feelings exactly," Hermione replied.

"Are you… happy to be back at Hogwarts?"

Hermione considered this. It echoed a question she had anguished over in the months preceding the reopening of the castle. She had never, even as a child before she’d known she was magic, imagined that she wouldn’t finish her studies. Even at primary school, she pictured herself at university somewhere scenic and prestigious, and every year at Hogwarts she’d spent actively preparing for her NEWTs which was ironic, given the circumstances she found herself in during her seventh year. And yet… did she really want to go back to Hogwarts? Back to the place that was ravaged by evil, the place where so many of her friends - Fred, Tonks, Remus - had been killed?

"Happy… isn’t exactly the word I’d use, Professor," she said eventually, "but I do not take for granted how fortunate I am to have this opportunity at all. I’m not about to waste it."

They’d reached the stone gargoyle that marked the entrance to the Head’s office and, when they halted beside it, McGonagall turned to study her.

"No, I should think not," she said. "You’ve been through a great deal to get here. Give yourself the credit you have earned."

Hermione swallowed thickly as her heartbeat thrummed in her temples. "Professor, what’s this about?" she asked. McGonagall seemed to twinkle again.

"Now, now," she said, looking just shy of tapping Hermione impishly on the nose. "I’d better not explain until you both are present. _Liquorice Allsorts_!"

The stone gargoyle sprang to life and leapt sideways, revealing a spiralling staircase which seemed to grumble in complaint at being woken as it began to wind itself upwards. At the top, they crossed the landing to the great oak door which swung open at McGonagall’s touch, leading into the large circular Head’s office.

Hermione had seen the Head’s office a handful of times when Dumbledore was in the post and fondly remembered the magical feeling of the room, strewn with ticking, whirring, twinkling ornaments, some of which could fit in your palm and some of which towered over the Headmaster himself. She remembered the Fawkes the phoenix’s stead at the foot of the wrought staircase to the sleeping quarters and the Pensieve that glowed enticingly from inside its cabinet.

She had loved the office under Dumbledore’s Headship but McGonagall’s stamp on the room was much more her style. Books - good heavens, the books - they were everywhere: slotted snugly into innumerable shelves, piled on the little table between two velveteen armchairs, arranged in stacks on the large oak desk at the very apex of the room; not scattered or out of place, no, but decorating the room as features. Increasing amounts of plants and flowers appeared to materialise the more she looked around the room - springs of lavender and baby’s breath, large fern fronds, pretty cream-coloured tulips in an old pewter jug on the windowsill. The portraits of the historic Headmasters remained on the walls, with the two new additions of Dumbledore and - yes - Snape taking front and centre, both of whom were snoozing in their armchairs either genuinely or out of politeness. There were two sturdy looking chairs arranged before McGonagall’s desk, one of which was occupied by-

"Malfoy!" Hermione exclaimed in spite of herself. He looked over his shoulder at her and raised his eyebrows in greeting.

"I would stand," he said, and it felt as though his voice echoed through her entire body, "but I don’t think I would be forgiven."

When she looked at him questioningly, he gestured to his lap, where Hermione saw the long, bushy tail of a large ginger cat swinging languidly over his leg, clearly very comfortable.

"Crooks?" she whispered, rushing over, hardly daring to believe that her sweet old cat was here before her, never mind still actually alive. He opened one green eye at the sound of her voice and, on confirming that it was her, stumbled to his big paws and began to let out loud, chirrupy yowls. Hermione fell into the second chair and had barely patted her knee before he had sprang into her lap, curling his tail around her face and knocking his head into her chin and hands.

"That’s one clever cat you’ve got there, Miss Granger," McGonagall said, setting down a tray of two large mugs of tea, a milk jug and a bowl of sugar cubes on the desk in front of them. "After the Battle, when everybody had gone, I came up here to… well, I came up here and there he was, fast asleep in the Headmaster’s chair, safe and tucked away from all the action."

Hermione laughed for the first time in what felt like months, blinking away the tears that had sprang to her eyes. All those years ago, back at the Burrow before Bill and Fleur’s wedding, she’d left Crookshanks in Ginny’s room and told him to be good. She knew from Ginny that she had taken him back to the castle despite his protestations and left food out for him every night which, every night, was left untouched. She’d assumed he’d made a new home in the wild and she hadn’t realised until now how much she’d missed him.

"Now," McGonagall said, her tone turned businesslike, "let’s get straight to the point." Hermione shushed the cat, who curled up happily on her lap, and Malfoy ceased attempting to brush ginger fur from his trouser legs to look up and listen. "I expect you are wondering why you are both here. Perhaps you wouldn’t be if this were a normal school year, if you were two normal Seventh Year students returning for your NEWTs."

Hermione chanced a look at Malfoy. He was sat low in his chair, his angular legs spread and his arms crossed tightly across his chest, glowering at the sugar bowl. He, it seemed, understood what was happening more than she did.

"Professor?" she asked uncertainly, and McGonagall fixed them with a resolute stare.

"You both bring exceptional merit, skill and intelligence to this school, albeit you have previously chosen to exhibit these traits in very different ways. Miss Granger, you have always been extraordinarily bright, but your courage, resilience and practicality have made me very proud to have you in my House. And Mr Malfoy-"

He looked up to meet McGonagall’s eye, chewing the inside of his lip.

"Mr Malfoy, I knew your father once. I knew your mother. And I have known you since you were an eleven year old boy, stepping into this castle for the very first time, polite, well-spoken and eager to learn and do well. Merlin knows you have been misguided, but the very fact that you are here tells me all I need to know about your future, Draco, not your past."

She paused, fire in her fixed expression.

"Drink your tea, it’s getting cold."

They did as they were told. Hermione added a splash of milk to hers, while Malfoy added as many as four sugar cubes to his, much to Hermione’s horror. They each took a sip, and McGonagall seized her chance.

"I’m making you both Head Boy and Head Girl respectively and there isn’t anything you can do about it."

Crookshanks hadn’t missed Hermione enough to tolerate lukewarm, mouth-swilled tea spilling into his fur when she spluttered rather ungracefully at this proclamation; he flounced off her knee with a hiss and a twitch of his bottle-brush tail. Malfoy, having hurriedly swallowed his mouthful, had apparently chivvied it down the wrong hole and was now intermittently gasping and coughing as he tried to right himself.

McGonagall put up with this for all of thirty seconds before losing her patience.

"For Heaven’s sakes, Mr Malfoy, pull yourself together."

He reappeared from where he’d been bent double in his chair, still rather pink in the face and wheezing a little.

"Professor, have you-"

"Miss Granger, you can’t honestly be surprised? Maybe I ought to reconsider, given that this decision has been made in part due to your intelligence." McGonagall’s nostrils were flared, but there was also that amused twinkle present in her expression once more.

Malfoy had regained his ability to vocalise.

"Professor McGonagall, I really don’t think-"

"It’s not your decision to make, Mr Malfoy," McGonagall said. "I anticipated that at least one of you would be unhappy about this but my decision is final."

She looked from Hermione to Malfoy sternly and a rare twitch of the corner of her mouth signalled a smile trying to sneak through her icy exterior. Hermione chanced a look at Malfoy; he was holding his mug in his lap, blinking morosely at the dregs of tea that hadn’t spilled onto the carpet during his coughing fit.

"Professor," Hermione ventured, leaning forwards to return her mug to the tea tray on the desk, "I wonder if you’ve considered the… reaction from the rest of the students at this news." She cast a significant glance at Malfoy hoping to convey her meaning. _Who will take orders from_ him _?_

McGonagall’s lips tightened into a hard line and something in her expression turned stony. Hermione felt a sick swoop in her stomach at being looked at in such a way by a teacher.

"Believe me, I have considered it, Miss Granger," she said, "perhaps even more deeply than you have in the five minutes since you learned about my decision."

Hermione looked at her shoes.

"Professor, I didn’t mean to question-"

"I know, Miss Granger. In turn, I ask you to consider that there may be reasoning beyond your reckoning as to why Mr Malfoy and yourself have been selected to fulfil these roles."

"Yes, Professor," she nodded.

"Good. Duties will commence with classes on Monday. I should also let you know that, due to the abnormal number of this year’s student population, the Prefects and Heads now have their own designated common area and dormitories located in the unused Divination corridor on the Seventh Floor. The password is ‘Fizzing Whizbee’."

"Professor, can we still go in our old common rooms?"

"Of course, Miss Granger. You may have tonight to relax but I expect to see you both back here tomorrow morning at 10:30 to meet with the Prefects."

"Professor, who are the new Prefects, if I might ask?" Hermione asked, resisting the urge to raise her hand. She couldn’t recall any mention of Prefects - or, indeed, Head Boy and Girl - in McGonagall’s welcome speech.

"You will find out in due course," McGonagall answered, that small tug at the corner of her mouth reappearing. "Now, if there are no more objections, I would encourage you to return to your classmates or indeed turn in for the night." She rose from her chair and Hermione and Malfoy stood with her.

"Thank you, Professor," Hermione said at the doorway. Malfoy bowed his head mutely and followed her through. McGonagall bid them goodnight and closed the door softly, leaving them standing inches apart in the hallway. Hermione glanced at Malfoy; he held his shoulders straight and his hands clasped behind his back, but his head was ducked as if his shoes were the most interesting thing in the room. As if sensing her gaze, he looked up at her, his stormy grey eyes peering questioningly through his lashes. _Can I help you?_

Hermione looked away quickly and cleared her throat, but her curiosity got the better of her.

"Where were you?" she asked. "Just now. During the feast," she clarified, as he had crooked that infuriating eyebrow at her again.

"Just now, Granger? I had thought I was in McGonagall’s office with you but I must have been mistaken," he drawled, inspecting his fingernails.

Hermione scoffed.

"Something funny?" he asked.

"Not at all," she replied smoothly. "I just remembered that Ginny is always right."

"Hmm," is all he said, but he held his hand out in front of them both. "After you."

"Gladly."

Hermione stormed down the spiral staircase and along the corridor ahead of him, sure he would be tracing her footsteps to the Divination corridor rather than stepping foot in Slytherin quarters, but she didn’t look back to check if he was following. She reached the seventh floor in record time, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridor, and barked the password at the tapestry, which rolled up with a clatter to reveal a stone archway.

The archway led to the new Prefects’ common room, a large square space which Hermione could tell from a cursory glance was dressed neutrally with each corner adorned with a colourful banner from each House and furnished with a number of squashy-looking armchairs and sofas. There was a hearth which came to life with invitingly warm flames when she entered, and full bookshelves, candelabras and a prestigious-looking suit of armour stood between two other archways on the far wall, beyond which two stone staircases curled upwards and out of sight.

She didn’t linger to appreciate the surroundings, however, very aware of who would likely accompany her soon if she stopped to explore. She took the left staircase, which turned out to be a lucky guess as a door with an ornate ‘Head Girl’ plaque soon materialised on her left and swung open at her touch. Only when she’d shut the door behind her, her forehead resting against the wood, did she release the breath she had been holding. She made a mental note to kick the exercise regime up a notch, because the way her heart was hammering in her chest had absolutely _nothing_ to do with Malfoy.

A quiet yowl made her turn and spot her clever Crookshanks stretching on her four-poster with his big ginger tail in the air. On the floor, most likely kicked away from the spot where the cat was now curling up to sleep, was an envelope lying face down. She picked up; she recognised the writing and sighed. No use putting it off, she thought and opened it, sitting on the edge of her bed to read, chewing on her thumbnail.

> _Hermione,_
> 
> _Hope the journey was alright. Look, I know things have been weird between us but I want you to know how amazing I think you are. You know I’m not good with words but you’re brilliant, Hermione. I know you’re worried about this year but you’ll do great. Remember to ask McGonagall about me coming to see you for a weekend soon. Miss you already._
> 
> _Love, Ron xxx_


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione was headed back to the Head’s entrance suite at 10:20 the next morning, groggy from a night’s sleep that was patchy at best. The mattress was too soft, the pillow too hard, the quilt too heavy and the strip of moonlight slicing through the gap in the curtains too bright. The letter from Ron seemed to dance behind her closed eyelids, his kind words snaking in trails across her mind’s eye and coming to a halt with a sickening thud in the pit of her stomach. When she did settle, she dreamt of slender hands on her waist and swathes of gleaming silver silk.

Breakfast in the Great Hall on Saturday mornings was a relaxed affair. At the Gryffindor table, spooning her cereal with her latest book propped against the milk jug whilst trying to avoid dipping the sleeves of her robes into her bowl, Hermione felt a comfortable pang of familiarity. She missed sitting with Harry and Ron, but sitting alone was freeing. She was the only older student from her House up this early for breakfast, she noted; the other students at the Gryffindor table were Third Year or younger. Two tiny First Year girls were sitting a few seats up, buttering their toast and glancing at her shyly. Looking at the other House tables was the same; apparently the older students had opted to sleep in.

Glancing at the Slytherin table, she spotted only one taller, broader frame, dressed smartly in a crisp white shirt and green tie, the Head Boy badge gleaming on his front pocket. Malfoy stood out like a shiny Sickle, sat alone and apart from the other students who had banded together further along the table. From afar, she watched him bring the steaming teacup to his lips and take a sip. A stray lock of hair fell forwards as he swallowed and, as he jerked his head to flick it away, he locked eyes with hers. Stormy grey met honey brown; she couldn’t see the colour from this distance, of course, but she could visualise it from memory and it made her stomach swoop. She looked away quickly, mortified to realise that the steady drip-drip from the spoon she held aloft on its way from the bowl to her mouth had bounced glossy droplets of milk onto the pages of her book during her momentary lapse of concentration. She finished her breakfast swiftly and hurried from the Hall without another glance at the table at the far end of the room.

A glance at her watch (her mother’s; an elegant silver face on a simple rose suede band) told her it was only 9:30 AM. Still another hour until she was expected at McGonagall’s. She was almost at the library before she realised where she was going, before the memory flooded her senses unbidden. Lips on hers, a large strong hand on the back of her neck and another at her waist, bookshelves pressing into her spine. No. She wasn’t going to think about that. She turned and marched through the front doors, skipping down the stone steps and round into the grounds. It was a damp day and the September air held a chill; the silver light of the sun through the mist seemed to dance on the dew that clung to the grass. The lawns were empty from here to the Lake. She found a bench, tucked her cloak beneath her before sitting down and pulling the same milk-splashed book from her bag. She absolutely did not think about Draco Malfoy.

*

_**Saturday 2nd May 1988** _

_‘The sun rose steadily over Hogwart’s, and the Great Hall blazed with light and life.’_

Hermione stood with McGonagall, duplicating and transfiguring the one pocket handkerchief into dozens of large, thick blankets. By now, the sun had climbed in the sky but provided little warmth in the ravaged Great Hall; the windows glinted with broken panes and eddies of dust rose from piles of terracotta bricks where sections of the walls had been pulled down. Hermione looked around: in the afterglow of victory, nobody looked very cold, but shock would surely hit them soon. She returned to concentrate on the task at hand; the hum of voices rising and falling, the occasional cry of glee, did not help to soothe her fraught nerves.

‘Alright, Miss Granger,’ McGonagall said, holding out a stack of blankets for her to take. ‘If you wouldn’t mind distributing these. I will attend to our fatalities.’ Her lips pressed into that familiar stern line, strong and resolute.

Hermione did as she was told and was met with gratitude. Neville patted her gently on the shoulder, Luna beamed her usual dreamy smile; Padma and Parvati Patil, still tearful at the loss of their friend Lavender, pulled her into a tight three-way hug, spilling over with thank yous as they knocked the blankets out of her arms in their eagerness. When they finally retreated, Padma tossing the blanket around her sister’s shoulders, Hermione turned to continue the length of the hall.

Three glints of silver caught her eye. There was one last group of people, a family, sitting further along the Gryffindor table where a patch of ashy sunlight dappled the woodwork. The Malfoy family huddled together in their own little triangle; Narcissa sat tall and graceful, ever the matriarch, but Lucius was slumped and tired-looking with shadows crossing his sunken face, his grey eyes shooting upward glances to the other people in the Hall every few moments. She couldn’t see Draco’s face but she thought she saw his hands tremble. Even in despair, Hermione thought they were the most beautiful things she had ever seen, and cursed herself for the thought. Nobody paid them any attention.

Hermione glanced at the tabletop on her left and saw one remaining untouched pot of tea on an empty tray. She touched her fingertips to the wand in her pocket, wordlessly conjuring three cups and saucers from the kitchens, and tossed a bowl of sugar lumps onto the tray as she picked it up.

Narcissa eyed her warily as she approached. Hermione tried to tone down the expression of fierce determination that felt familiar on her features as she met her gaze. Narcissa’s face held a steely glint as she kept her brow level and her jaw tight and lifted, but her eyes caught Hermione off guard.

‘I…’ she began, then faltered. She glanced down as she saw Draco twitch in her peripheral.

‘Yes, Miss Granger?’ Narcissa asked in her low tone. Her eyes were unnervingly soft. She was reminded of her own mother, and how she would look at her face, smoothing her hair back from her forehead as she tucked into bed as a little girl. She looked so very tired.

Hermione cleared her throat and tried again.

‘I thought you might be in need of refreshments,’ she said simply, setting the tray on the table, refusing to allow her hands to shake; there was no tell-tale rattle and she rippled with secret delight.

Narcissa looked at the tray before her, with its obscenely bulky tea pot in its frilly knitted cosy, and its chipped mismatched teacups. The steam circling from the spout looked invitingly warm. She looked back up at the girl in front of her; Hermione thought her eyes seemed wetter than they had a second previously, but she blinked and the implication was gone.

‘Thank you, Miss Granger,’ she said. Her arm moved over the table to lay her hand over her husband’s. ‘Miss Granger has brought us tea, darling. Isn’t that nice?’

Lucius looked up slowly, unfurling his bowed head from his neck. He met her gaze briefly and, with effort, Hermione stopped herself from flinching from the cruel sneer she expected to receive. Instead, he looked forlorn. He looked back down to the tray and moistened his lips.

‘Thank you,’ he said. Hermione could scarcely believe it.

Narcissa looked across the table at her son expectantly.

‘Draco,’ she nudged after a few seconds. Draco slowly and deliberately turned his exquisite blond head a few inches in Hermione’s direction, his eyes still on the stone floor.

‘Granger,’ he uttered.

‘Thank her,’ Narcissa commanded quietly, a warning rippling the surface of her composed exterior.

‘It’s fine,’ Hermione said. This family was ridiculous. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Malfoy. Mr Malfoy,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘Enjoy your tea. Don’t let it get cold.’

*

The castle rang with the 10:30 chimes as Hermione reached the Head’s suite for the Prefects’ meeting. As she had hoped, she was the last to arrive, and was able to avoid the rest of the group’s greetings as McGonagall opened her office door right on time to silence them and beckon them inside. Ginny appeared at her side.

‘Can you believe McGonagall made me a Prefect?’ she hissed in her ear.

‘She must have heard tell of your legendary Bat Bogey Hex,’ Hermione whispered back and the two slipped into hushed giggles. McGonagall silenced them again with one raised brow as they took their seats. She could see Malfoy’s blond head at the very front edge of the crowd; he was inciting some surly murmuring from some of the students.

‘Oh, what’s that prick doing here?’ Ginny muttered. Hermione shifted in her seat, acutely aware of the Ginny’s likely response upon discovering who was Head Boy. She did not seem to have spied his badge just yet but it appeared Ernie Macmillan had. He looked even more pompous than usual but his face wore a deep scowl which he kept aiming in Malfoy’s direction.

‘Good morning, Prefects,’ McGonagall opened to the group, ‘and thank you for sacrificing valued time catching up with your peers, or indeed a much-needed lie in, to come here this Saturday morning.’

A chuckle of assent passed through the group and Hermione allowed her thoughts to drift whilst still following McGonagall’s thread. She was thinking about the red-haired girl beside her and the blond boy at the front of the room, regretting her evasiveness last night and this morning. Why she had headed straight for the Prefects’ suite and not to Gryffindor Tower, to her friends, after her meeting with McGonagall, she did not know. And her early rising and wandering this morning instead of seeking out Ginny and Luna, opting instead to be alone… she couldn’t explain that. Her only reasoning was that company often equalled conversation, and conversation led to questions. She knew what Ginny’s questions would be and, right now, those questions would lead to lies and omissions. She did not want to lie to her best friend.

‘…will come as no surprise to many of you that I have named Miss Granger as our Head Girl.’

Hermione blinked glassily at the sound of her name and quirked her lips in a small smile, hoping that nobody would expect a speech. A small round of applause followed her words.

‘Congratulations again, Miss Granger,’ McGonagall said with a smile, before clasping her hands in front of her, billowing sleeves falling over her wrists as she stood tall. ‘I hope you will all extend the same support to our new Head Boy, Mr Malfoy.’

There were no dramatic gasps of shock but there was no applause either. Ernie Macmillan hissed in outrage.

‘Professor!’ he managed to spit out, his intonation that of a whiny child who had had his broomstick confiscated.

‘Macmillan?’ McGonagall’s tone was icy. Macmillan sputtered for a few seconds, gesturing feebly in Malfoy’s direction before McGonagall fixed him with a stern stare. He fell back against the back of the chair in defeat, sulkily crossing his arms across his chest. Malfoy had adopted a similar posture, flopped carelessly in his seat, examining his fingernails, that stubborn lock of hair falling again into his eyes as he bent his neck.

Hermione looked over at Ginny surreptitiously. Her friend betrayed no outward sign of dismay to the untrained eye, but Hermione was not untrained. Ginny was too still, her eyes fixed resolutely at a spot just above McGonagall’s shoulder, and a pink flush was creeping over her shirt collar.

‘My decision is final,’ their professor was saying. ‘I don’t expect you to agree. I don’t expect you to understand. But I do expect you to try - and, above all, I expect you to be civil.’

She paused for a moment as if to allow anybody to object - as if any of them dared - and when nobody did, she seemed to uncoil, her shoulders sinking by an inch as she exhaled through flared nostrils.

‘Good. The Heads are on patrol duty tonight. The rota going forward can be found in the Prefects’ Quarters and is non-negotiable except for under extenuating circumstances. Appeals for this can be made to the Heads, who will defer to me in cases of conflicting interests. The same goes for any other problems you may have with your duties. Are there any other questions?’

There were not, but the silence in their stead was surly. Just as many students that had been glaring daggers at Malfoy were now directing their ire at McGonagall.

‘Excellent. In that case, you are dismissed. Enjoy the rest of your weekend, and Granger, Malfoy - I expect to see you on patrol duty immediately after the feast.’

There was a rumble of dissent as the students got to their feet and gathered their things. Ernie Macmillan was first out the door, bright red in the face, shouldering the door frame clumsily as he muttered something about “owling the Ministry right away”. Hermione stood and swung her bag over her shoulder; she was about to leave when she noticed Ginny hadn’t moved.

‘Ginny?’ she asked gently. Ginny didn’t give any sign of having heard her and Hermione was about to reach out to touch her shoulder when her chin jutted a fraction of an inch in her direction, her blonde lashes closed.

‘You knew?’ she asked so quietly Hermione had to read her lips. ‘You knew he was Head Boy, didn’t you?’ she clarified when Hermione didn’t answer.

A moment’s hesitation.

‘McGonagall told us both last night after the feast,’ she admitted.

‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’ Ginny asked, more loudly. She faced Hermione head on now and her light brown eyes seemed to blaze. ‘After everything he’s done, you didn’t think to warn me before I came here today?’

Hermione faltered. How could she answer? She hadn’t known Ginny had been made Prefect. She hadn’t had time to tell her before McGonagall began the Prefects’ meeting. She hadn’t gone to the Common Room last night to tell her because… why?

 _Because you hid_ , said a nasty voice in her head.

No, Hermione volleyed back at it.

 _Because you wanted to be alone with him_ , an even nastier voice countered.

‘I’m… I’m sorry, Ginny, I-’

McGonagall appeared at Ginny’s side and placed her thin hand, laden with jewelled rings, on her shoulder. She smiled at Hermione with warmth and - horribly - sympathy.

‘Miss Granger,’ she said, ‘Miss Weasley and I had planned to have a little chat, if you would be so kind…’ She gestured to the doorway, signalling her to leave. Hermione hiked her bag higher up her shoulder.

‘Ginny?’ she tried once more, but her friend had turned away from her again. McGonagall ushered her gently to the doorway and gave her another sympathetic smile.

‘Come and talk to me later, if you wish,’ she said quietly, before closing the office door with a hushed click. Hermione felt the familiar, humiliating sting of tears prickling the corners of her eyes. She exhaled a shaky breath and brusquely wiped at her cheeks with the heel of her hand before turning to leave. She hadn’t made it one step before coming to an abrupt halt, for there was Malfoy leaning back against the opposite wall with his hands in his trouser pockets. The front of his hair was pushed off his face and his wand was tucked inexplicably behind his right ear.

‘What do _you_ want?’ Hermione spat. Malfoy pushed forward off the wall with a few steps forward and crossed his arms over his chest. Hermione absolutely did not take note of the effect this had on his biceps beneath his crisp white shirt.

‘Thought you could do with a friend, Granger,’ he replied without a trace of sarcasm. If anything, he looked _concerned_. It took her a moment to fathom her thoughts.

‘And what would that have to do with _you_?’ she replied sharply. She stormed past him, barging his arm with her shoulder accidentally on purpose as she headed for the spiralling staircase, hopping down them two at a time in her haste to run away. _To hide_ , said that nasty voice again.

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up,’ she muttered to herself under her breath, hair flying behind her as she sped down the corridor with loud, lithe steps, ignoring the tingling in her shoulder where her body had momentarily touched his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in posting! I have no excuse other than I've been busy. I hope you all had a good Christmas, if you celebrated, despite the circumstances!
> 
> I hope you like the chapter. I think it loosens the first small knot in the tangle that I hope to have created, if that makes any sense! Let me know what you think :)
> 
> Lilly x


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: This chapter contains sexual content! 
> 
> Usual disclaimer: Fairly obvious but all characters, settings, context, etc. do not belong to me.

_1st August 1998: The Burrow._

The afternoon of Bill and Fleur’s wedding anniversary was, all things considered, going rather smoothly. Music was in full swing, the gnomes were keeping their distance and Molly had only cried once, a tearful sniffle when they had all sat down for tea. Much like at Harry’s 17th birthday the previous year, the outdoor tables had been magically extended and duplicated to allow for such a large gathering, and it took an awkward five seconds for Molly to realise she had laid an extra place at the table for Fred out of habit. It had been Kingsley Shacklebolt who had raised his glass and, in his deep and calming voice, toasted to Fred Weasley, as well as Remus and Tonks.Molly had smiled sadly, her eyes shining, and Arthur rubbed her shoulder comfortingly. 

The sun was now low in the sky but showed no sign of cooling and the scene before Hermione shone beautifully in the honey-gold light. Harry and Ginny were cooing over Teddy, who was now four months old and sprouting blonde curls that flashed intermittently with a tint of violet. On the makeshift dance-floor/lawn was Bill, twirling a barefoot yet graceful Fleur under his arm; Molly and Arthur, who were three large glasses of wine down and doing some sort of jive; and Kingsley and Mrs Delacour, chatting amicably and dancing a relaxed to-and-fro a few feet apart. Hagrid and Mr Delacour were still at the tables, cheers-ing and clapping each other on the back every now and then while George, Charlie and Percy sipped their drinks quietly nearby. 

A patch of sun fell directly on Hermione, warming her skin. She had chosen a simple pale yellow dress for the occasion, strappy and sleeveless with a floaty skirt that fell below the knee; the thin cotton usually kept her cool in the summer weather but now she could feel sweat gathering on her chest and on the small of her back. Her wine glass was beaded with condensation in her hand, the ice she’d snuck into it (much to Fleur’s dismay) long melted. She rose and headed into the house.

It was infinitely cooler in the kitchen, and blissfully quiet. She set her bottle down on the table and pulled her hair into a ponytail, before tearing some kitchen towel away from the roll on the window sill to dab the moisture from her face and neck. She ran the tap, letting the water get colder as it ran through her fingers, and was filling a glass when she felt a pair of sturdy arms circle her waist from behind. 

‘You could use a cooling charm for that, you know,’ Ron murmured in her ear. She felt his soft hair tickle her neck as he pressed a light kiss to her pulse point. Hermione smiled begrudgingly.

‘What is it your mum says, about whipping your wands out for everything?’ she replied, turning and taking a sip of her water. Ron rolled his eyes and stepped back to appraise her. His eyes seemed to darken as they drank in her shape and Hermione heard his throat work as he swallowed; she cleared her throat pointedly and he had the grace to turn slightly pink.

‘You, er… you look great,’ he said. ‘The dress, you know, it’s… it’s beautiful. It’s yellow.’

‘Is this an attempt to compliment me, Ronald?’ she smiled, setting the glass down. Ron wasn’t particularly forthcoming with his affections verbally but she knew it wasn’t for lack of trying. 

‘Maybe,’ he smirked.

‘Well, you also look lovely,’ she returned, plucking at the shoulder of his cream-coloured shirt. ‘We don’t often see you looking so smart.’

‘It’s a special occasion, I thought I’d try to scrub up a bit,’ he replied. He took a step towards her and she felt the kitchen ledge touch her lower back as he leaned into her, broad and tall, covering her hands with his. His eyes flicked to her lips once more before he kissed her, softly at first but with more vigour when she responded in kind. It was a nice kiss. He coaxed her mouth to open and she could taste the Butterbeer on his tongue and feel how warm his hands were when they moved to her waist. He leaned against her further, his large body heavy and warm and overwhelming as it pressed into her. One hand slipped between her and the kitchen side, rounding her behind and gathering her cotton skirt into a fist and pulling her hips towards his. He stepped back abruptly with a low groan, backing into the table as far away from her as the cramped space would allow. The pink from his cheeks was sneaking down below his collar.

Heat seemed to fizzle through her veins like pins and needles, and her head thrummed deliciously from the two glasses of wine she’d sipped at throughout the afternoon. When Ron was kissing her, there was just that, just Ron, and nothing else, just for a little while. Everything forgotten.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I know we’ve talked about that… I know you’re not ready and that’s fine, I just…’

She wanted to forget, and she felt emboldened. Her exhilarated pulse throbbed in her temples.

‘We could go upstairs,’ she said. Ron’s eyes widened and his cheeks became impossibly pinker.

‘Up-upstairs?’

She nodded and he nodded back. He glanced out the open door where the party was still ongoing, everyone’s attentions occupied. Harry and Ginny were dancing a ludicrously fast jig to an otherwise slow and romantic song. 

‘Okay,’ Ron said. He took her hand and led her out the kitchen and up the narrow staircase. The old wood creaked with their quick footsteps. They passed the room she shared with Ginny and continued upwards until they reached his bedroom door, still stuck with a faded Chudley Cannons poster. She followed him in and he shut the door behind them with a quiet click.

Hermione had never been in Ron’s room without Harry being there too. The space that Harry’s fold-out bed usually took up was now occupied by Ron’s old Hogwart’s trunk and broom and a pile of clean, once-folded clothes that had yet to be put away. The walls were still orange, albeit faded from the years of sun and now (thankfully) bereft of posters. The bedding was cream and, in places, bobbled from age, his matching orange set clearly in the wash. 

‘Sorry about the mess,’ Ron said a little too loudly, bringing her attention back to him. One hand was in his trouser pocket, the other scratching the back of his head. Hermione stepped towards him, still confident from the wine and the weather, and slid her hands to his shoulders, rising on her toes to touch her lips to his. Again, softly at first; he brought his large, warm hands to her elbows and kissed her with more fervour. She moved her hands to his neck and walked them backwards towards the single bed. It creaked under their weight as he knelt above her. His eyes were darting all over her face.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I’ve-’ he cleared his throat, ‘I’ve never… I’ve not…’

His hair brushed against her forehead and she pushed it back. ‘I haven’t either,’ she said.

‘I thought, y’know, maybe… with Krum…’

She huffed a short laugh and shook her head. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ 

‘Okay.’ He kissed her again, his lips quickly moving to her neck. She let her knees fall sideways and he sank deeper against her body. He was hard; she could feel it between her legs, a teasing pressure. She ran her hands down his back and untucked his shirt from his trousers, pulling his backside against her as she rolled her hips. He exhaled against her neck shakily, the slightest moan coiled in his throat. He pulled back and moved one hand to her breast, squeezing tentatively. Her dress hadn’t required a bra.

‘Is this alright?’ Ron whispered.

‘Yes,’ she whispered back, catching his lips again and rolling against him a second time. He squeezed her breast more firmly and she felt her nipples tighten under his touch. 

‘Always loved your tits,’ he murmured into her mouth. She didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing and just let him kiss her; a simple “thank you” didn’t seem appropriate. The skin of his back and waist, hitherto unexplored by her, was smooth under her hands, his stomach and sides soft and yielding, and it exhilarated her to be touching it.

Ron’s hand left her breast, sliding down to her waist, her hip, the bare skin of her thigh. Her skirt had fallen to gather at her middle, exposing her light-coloured cotton briefs. He pulled back slightly to look at her and she wondered idly whether he had hoped or expected something more risqué. He knelt between her legs, stroking his thumbs over her hipbones.

He was going too slowly. Anxious for progress, she removed first one strap then the other of her dress, sliding them along her arms and pulling the bodice down to reveal her breasts. Ron gazed at them and wet his lips. She felt him throb between her legs and moved to unbuckle his belt. As if snapped from a stupor, Ron stood and quickly removed his trousers before climbing back on top of her. She got a glimpse of his cock tenting through his boxers and felt the first zap of panic; that was going to be inside her - how on earth was it supposed to fit?

Emboldened with fresh confidence, Ron kissed her feverishly; his body covered hers almost completely, his hips bucking to press his cock against her core. She could feel that she was wet and the contact made something in her ache. Her hands moved to the collar of his shirt and deftly unfastened the buttons, her fingers brushing against the light trail of hair on his stomach. His mouth moved to her neck again, breathing hot against her skin. She felt his hand drift, feather-light, down her body and snake between them; he fumbled with the material of her underwear for a moment before his thumb slid against the fabric, lightly stroking her entrance. 

‘Hermione…’ he breathed.

She felt very warm. Ron stroked the pad of his thumb insistently over her core as she drew in shuddering breaths. His cock throbbed through his boxers against the inside of her thigh, reminding her of its largeness. His breath was hot on her collarbone. She could feel her hair coming loose from its hair-tie against the pillow. 

Ron took her hand and guided it down his body to the front of his boxers. She pressed her palm clumsily to his groin, feeling the size of him and the damp spot of precum in the fabric. She squeezed experimentally and he made a guttural sound, his hips snapping to meet her hand. 

‘Please, Hermione…’

‘Yes?’

‘Please…’ he kissed her. ‘Touch me.’

‘I am touching you.’

His lips were warm and firm against her own, their mouths open and their breathing laboured; he swirled his tongue into her mouth as he groaned again quietly and she felt a thrill shoot through her. He took hold of her hand again and brought it up to his lower belly, smoothing her fingertips beneath the waistband of his boxers. Her eyes opened, her gaze landing on the cracked ceiling. _Oh._ A wave of heat flew through her and pooled unpleasantly in her stomach. This was new. 

She slid her hand further down at his encouragement, grazing the soft patch of pubic hair, and found his cock and wrapped her fingers around it before she could doubt herself. It was warmer and harder than she expected, and the skin loose and velvety smooth. He moved his hips, the movement mimicking a thrust as his cock twitched in her grasp; he hummed appreciatively in response. He pressed the flat of his hand firmly against her core for a moment before fingering at the edges of her underwear. With some manoeuvring, he twitched them to one side and touched her directly. She gasped, taken off guard by the contact, and Ron, spurred on by her response, began squeezing one finger inside her. 

‘Oh,’ she breathed shakily. _Relax_ , she told herself. It wasn’t comfortable. It almost hurt. _It’s hurting because you won’t relax._ She felt nauseous, panicked. She heard doors clattering far below and voices buzzing, the party returning indoors. 

‘Hermione?’ Ron asked. She met his gaze; through lust-filled, heavy-lidded eyes, touching her intimately and with her hand down his pants, he was looking at her with the utmost concern. It almost made her weep. ‘Babe, what’s wrong?’ 

‘I’m-I’m sorry,’ she began. She felt frozen.

‘Sorry? What for?’ He swiftly righted her underwear and removed her hand from his boxers as he moved to sit back, giving her space. ‘You don’t need to be sorry.’

‘I… I can’t do this,’ Hermione heard herself say.

‘It’s okay, it’s okay, we don’t have to,’ he said soothingly, helping her sit, helping her to pull her straps back into place. ‘We can wait. _I’m_ sorry, I don’t want to push you…’

‘No, no,’ she said. ‘No… I can’t… I can’t do _this_.’

Ron blanched, his large hand a blistering heat on her leg. He wet his lips and swallowed dryly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I… I just…’ Hermione gestured hopelessly, the words she was searching for deserting her when her eyes fell on Ron’s face. His blue eyes were glassy, his kiss-swollen lips pouty and downturned. A little crinkle of hurt had formed between his brows. The sun outside had drifted behind a cloud and the room no longer shone with its beaming light.

‘Hermione,’ he said in a low voice. She could hear the steady pattering of heavy raindrops hitting the window. 

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. She stood, righted her skirts and fled from the bright orange room, tumbling down the rickety staircase two at a time. She reached Ginny’s landing and burst inside. Ginny was stood beside her bed, pulling her rain-damp hair into a knot on top of her head; she glanced at Hermione with alarm at the sudden intrusion.

‘Hermione?’ she said. ‘Hermione, what’s up?’ 

‘I’m-I’m sorry, Ginny, I need to go,’ she replied shrilly, searching the room - under her bed, under her pillow, in the bedside drawers - for her beaded bag. She was aware of movement in the room so far above her as Ron moved around, no doubt putting his trousers back on.

‘Go! Go where?’ Ginny cried. ‘Why? What’s happened?’

Hermione felt the bag, way under the bed next to the wall, with her fingertips and swung it out to grasp the strap. She stood up and, avoiding Ginny’s eyes, was back out on the landing in one quick movement as Ron rounded the corner down the flight of stairs above her. 

‘What did you do?!’ she heard Ginny round on Ron.

‘Nothing, I swear-’

She swung round the banister into the lounge, which was now cluttered with damp people who looked up at her presence. Mrs Delacour was perched on the edge of the armchair closest to the hearth, warming her hands on the fire. Molly was bustling round Charlie, drying his hair with hot air from her wand.

‘Oh, Hermione, dear, I was wondering where you’d got to-’

Hermione sidled past her, eyes on the floor, acutely aware of the rolling footsteps and hollering of Ron and Ginny on her tail and of the anxious fluttering of her heart in her ribcage. She strode through the kitchen, round Hagrid who was occupying the only space in the Burrow large enough for him, the alcove in the kitchen, and out the open door into what was now heavy rain. The clouds seemed to roll above her, tumultuous and grey. The grass was a sodden muddy slush that easily overwhelmed her delicate heeled sandals, but she persevered, past Arthur, Bill and Percy as they wrestled with the magically-extended trestle tables that seemed to catch on the wind like sails, aiming for the Apparition Point just past the garden gate without its fences which had fallen into disrepair long ago.

‘Hermione!’ Ginny cried behind her. She could hear her trying to run, feet sticking in the mud. ‘Hermione, please wait! It’s alright, whatever’s wrong we can sort it-’

Hermione stepped past the garden gate, grasped her wand and Apparated, her eyes locking on Ginny’s pale, crumpled face as she turned, before she could screw them shut. The roar of the wind in her ears silenced, the falling of rain in her hair ceased; the only sound in the darkness behind her closed eyes was the ticking of a nearby clock.

Keeping her eyes closed, she raised her wand and performed as many protection charms as she could remember. She made the house Unplottable before she realised her mistake, that the Muggle neighbours would no doubt wonder at the disappearance of a four-bedroomed detached house that had been very much present the night before. When her work was done, she took several breaths before she peeked at her surroundings.

Her childhood bedroom, left much the same as it had been before the war when Hermione had locked it behind the door and under a Notice-Me-Not charm, was her welcome refuge.

*

‘Cutting it fine, aren’t you, Granger?’ 

Hermione had rounded the corner and barrelled down the stairs into the Entrance Hall where she was due to meet Malfoy for Patrol Duty at nine o’clock. She had left the Prefects’ Suite at 8:58 PM and she had made good time, but of course Malfoy was there already.

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ she retorted. The collar of her robes felt sticky around her neck and one of her knee socks had drooped to her shin. She stooped to fix it.

‘Touchy,’ Malfoy said. She noticed he had forgone robes altogether, his black trousers and white shirt immaculate, his green tie knotted perfectly at the base of his throat. She noticed the smooth white skin move as he lifted his chin, jerking his head to the side. ‘Shall we?’

‘We shall.’

Tonight’s patrol route was along the fifth, sixth and seventh floor corridors and they walked in increasingly frosty silence. As expected, the route itself was essentially deserted; the student body were more concerned with catching up with their friends in their common rooms than sneaking out to rove the castle. They shooed Peeves from a disused classroom where he was writing rude limericks on the chalkboard and Hermione was subject to a particularly depressing extended conversation with Nearly-Headless Nick about the state of Hogwarts both immediately pre- and post-war while Malfoy huffed impatiently behind her. 

‘Were you taught to be this impolite or are you just naturally gifted?’ Hermione shot at him when she finally managed to bid goodbye to Nick. His only answer was a quiet but pointed scoff. ‘I amuse you?’ she furthered. 

He threw her the briefest sidelong glance. She was expecting at least a trace of humour but his eyes were cold. 

‘You want to talk about being impolite,’ he murmured. 

They walked the length of the corridor, turning the corner onto a passage lined on one side with high, ornate windows. Pearly moonlight seeped through the panes, dappling the stone floor, and their clipped footsteps bounced from the arched ceiling. The absence of Hermione’s response seemed to swell.

Malfoy stopped abruptly in the middle of a bar of shadow. Hermione, a few paces ahead, turned to face him; he was staring straight at her, his arms crossed against his chest. Somewhere along the walk, he’d loosened his tie and rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbow. His expression was inaccessible in the low light but his grey eyes glinted as they bore into her.

‘I wrote to you,’ he said. When she didn’t respond, he took a step towards her. ‘I know you got the letters.’

She did get them. They were swaddled in an old sweater at the bottom of her trunk in her dormitory. 

‘You didn’t write back.’

‘I didn’t know what to say.’ 

He nodded, his eyes never once leaving her face. She wished he would look away. Until he looked away, she could not look away. He took another step, slow, calculated. 

‘You’re still with the Weasel.’ It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer it. He stepped out of the bar of shadow and his hair gleamed in silver pearl. He was close enough to her now that she could see the light catching on his eyelashes; she could smell him, clean and sharp. The intensity of his gaze seemed to double. He was much too close. She felt something low in her stomach clench and her fingertips tingled with the yearn to reach out and feel his skin, feel the firm muscle of his forearms tight across his body.

Something in her face seemed to satisfy him. He smirked, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards in a twisted grimace devoid of humour, drawing her eye to the plumpness of his lower lip. Despite herself, her breath was, mortifyingly, ragged on her next inhale. 

She expected a snarky remark, a crude one-liner to boost his ego, but instead he stepped around her curtly and continued along the moonlit corridor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Here's the latest chapter of this WIP. Apologies again for the delay in between updates, I'm aiming for one chapter per month so as not to overburden myself while I get used to writing for fun again. This chapter was quite smut-heavy so I hope that hasn't put anybody off. There will likely be more of this in coming chapters, just to let you know, because this is Dramione fanfic after all, you guys know the deal. 
> 
> A lot of this chapter was written in the early hours of the morning due to not being able to sleep. I've proof-read as best I can, but I have a sneaky feeling there may be some spelling errors, arbitrary repetition, non-sensical formatting, etc. so do let me know if that's the case and I will be happy to take a third/fourth/fifth look. 
> 
> Love Lilly x


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